a back-hand stroke so, using my right hand; but there are players who shift the racket to the left hand and return the ball so, do you see?"
"I see."
"Now I want to know if M. Kittredge uses both hands in playing tennis or only the one hand. And I want to know which hand he uses chiefly, that is, the right or the left?"
"Why do you want to know that?" inquired Alice, with a woman's curiosity.
"Never mind why, just remember it's important. Another thing is, to ask M. Kittredge about a chest of drawers in his room at the Hôtel des Étrangers. It is a piece of old oak, rather worm-eaten, but it has good bronzes for the drawer handles, two dogs fighting on either side of the lock plates."
Alice listened in astonishment. "I didn't suppose you knew where M. Kittredge lived."
"Nor did I until this morning," he smiled. "Since then I—well, as my friend Gibelin says, I haven't wasted my time."
"Your friend Gibelin?" repeated Alice, not understanding.
Coquenil smiled grimly. "He is an amiable person for whom I am preparing a—a little surprise."
"Oh! And what about the chest of drawers?"
"It's about one particular drawer, the small upper one on the right-hand side—better write that down."
"The small upper drawer on the right-hand side," repeated Alice.
"I find that M. Kittredge always kept this drawer locked. He seems to be a methodical person, and I want to know if he remembers opening it a few days ago and finding, it unlocked. Have you got that?"
"Yes."
"Good! Oh, one thing more. Find out if M. Kittredge ever suffers from rheumatism or gout."
The girl smiled. "Of course he doesn't; he is only twenty-eight."
"Please do not take this lightly, mademoiselle," the detective chided gently. "It is perhaps the most important point of all—his release from prison may depend on it."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not taking it lightly, indeed I'm not," and, with tears in her eyes, Alice assured M. Paul that she fully realized the importance of this mission and would spare no effort to make it successful.
A few moments later she hurried away, buoyed up by the thought that she was not only to see her lover but to serve him.
It was after six when Alice left the circular railway at the Montrouge station. She was in a remote and unfamiliar part of Paris, the region of the catacombs and the Gobelin tapestry works, and, although M. Paul had given her precise instructions, she wandered about for some time among streets of hospitals and convents until at last she came to an open place where she recognized Bartholdi's famous Belfort lion. Then she knew her way, and hurrying along the Boulevard Arago, she came presently to the gloomy mass of the Santé prison, which, with its diverging wings and galleries, spreads out like a great gray spider in the triangular space between the Rue Humboldt, the Rue de la Santé and the Boulevard Arago.
A kind-faced policeman pointed out a massive stone archway where she must enter, and passing here, beside a stolid soldier in his sentry box, she came presently to a black iron door in front of which were waiting two yellow-and-black prison vans, windowless. In this prison door were four glass-covered observation holes, and through these Alice saw a guard within, who, as she lifted the black iron knocker, drew forth a long brass key and turned the bolt. The door swung back, and with a shiver of repulsion the girl stepped inside. This was the prison, these men standing about were the jailers and—what did that matter so long as she got to him, to her dear Lloyd. There was nothing she would not face or endure for his sake.
No sooner had the guard heard that she came with a note from M. Paul Coquenil (that was a name to conjure with) than he showed her politely to a small waiting room, assuring her that the note would be given at once to the director of the prison. And a few moments later another door opened and a hard-faced, low-browed man of heavy build bowed to her with a crooked, sinister smile and motioned her into his private office. It was M. Dedet, the chief jailer.
"Always at the service of Paul Coquenil," he began. "What can I do for you, mademoiselle?"
Then, summoning her courage, and trying her best to make a good impression, Alice told him her errand. She wanted to speak with the American, M. Kittredge, who had been sent here the night before—she wanted to speak with him alone.
The jailer snapped his teeth and narrowed his brows in a hard stare. "Did Paul Coquenil send you here for that?" he questioned.
"Yes, sir," answered the girl, and her heart began to sink. "You see, it's a very special case and——"
"Special case," laughed the other harshly; "I should say so—it's a case of murder."
"But he is innocent, perfectly innocent," pleaded Alice.
"Of course, but if I let every murderer who says he's innocent see his sweetheart—well, this would be a fine prison. No, no, little one," he went on with offensive familiarity, "I am sorry to disappoint you and I hate to refuse M. Paul, but it can't be done. This man is au secret, which means that he must not see anyone except his lawyer. You know they assign a lawyer to a prisoner who has no money to employ one."
"But he has money, at least I have some for him. Please let me see him, for a few minutes." Her eyes filled with tears and she reached out her hands appealingly. "If you only knew the circumstances, if I could only make you understand."
"Haven't time to listen," he said impatiently, "there's no use whining. I can't do it and that's the end of it. If I let you talk with this man and the thing were known, I might lost my position." He rose abruptly as if to dismiss her.
Alice did not move. She had been sitting by a table on which a large sheet of pink blotting paper was spread before writing materials. And as she listened to the director's rough words, she took up a pencil and twisted it nervously in her fingers. Then, with increasing agitation, as she realized that her effort for Lloyd had failed, she began, without thinking, to make little marks on the blotter, and then a written scrawl—all with a singular fixed look in her eyes.
"You'll have to excuse me," said the jailer gruffly, seeing that she did not take his hint.
Alice started to her feet. "I—I beg your pardon," she said weakly, and, staggering, she tried to reach the door. Her distress was so evident that even this calloused man felt a thrill of pity and stepped forward to assist her. And, as he passed the table, his eye fell on the blotting paper.
"Why, what is this?" he exclaimed, eying her sharply.
"Oh, excuse me, sir," begged Alice, "I have spoiled your nice blotter. I am so sorry."
"Never mind the blotter, but—" He bent closer over the scrawled words, and then with a troubled look: "Did you write this?"
"Why—er—why—yes, sir, I'm afraid I did," she stammered.
"Don't you know you did?" he demanded.
"I—I wasn't thinking," she pleaded in fright.
